


in the stream of creation

by basha



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Friendship, Post-Project Blackwing (Dirk Gently), Project Blackwing (Dirk Gently), but not explicit by any means
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:13:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27631892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/basha/pseuds/basha
Summary: In an alternate universe, somewhere out there, Dirk, Bart, and Mona break out of Blackwing together.
Relationships: Bart Curlish & Dirk Gently, Bart Curlish & Mona Wilder, Dirk Gently & Mona Wilder, Dirk Gently & Mona Wilder & Bart Curlish
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	in the stream of creation

In an alternate universe, somewhere out there, Riggins makes the mistake of introducing Projects Marzana and Lamia. 

In almost every universe in which the man-eventually-known-as-Dirk-Gently is taken by Blackwing, Project Icarus is introduced to Lamia. 

It’s a good strategy; by bonding their inmates, the captors can then use them as tools against each other. (For example, the easiest way to get Incubus 1-3 to do anything is to threaten Incubus 4 in any way.) 

It’s clear from the first time that they meet in any universe that they’re simply _meant_ to be friends. Unlike the others, or most of the guards, Icarus seems to have an innate understanding of Lamia’s abilities; he can walk into the room she’s in and instantly identify which object is Lamia. He never pressures her to be anything she doesn’t want to be, especially a person, which is maybe why he’s one of the few people she will voluntarily be a person around. And Icarus benefits just as much from their friendship--no matter what form she’s in, Lamia will let him talk and talk on for as long as he likes without interrupting or rolling her eyes (especially the times when she’s being something without eyes, like a ship-in-a-bottle or a rubix cube) or hurting him. 

They inevitably come to love each other, and they inevitably come to be used against each other. 

In every universe in which the man-eventually-known-as-Dirk-Gently escapes Blackwing, Lamia is right by his side. 

Most of the time, when Icarus and Lamia break out of Blackwing, it’s his idea. 

In this particular alternate universe, it’s Marzana’s idea. 

It’s not like Icarus is totally unaware of what’s going on, the day it happens. He’s had a buzzy sort of feeling in his veins for months, ever since Lamia told him about her new, scary friend. 

“Friends aren’t scary,” Icarus had replied, staring down at Lamia, who is currently a book open in his lap, the words spreading across her pages as they “talk.” 

_She’s scary in a good way,_ Mona writes. _I’m not scared she’ll hurt me, I can just tell that she can hurt others._ A pause, then, like she’s worried she’ll hurt his feelings. He waits. _She makes me feel safe._

“Oh,” Icarus says, running his fingers over the last sentence. “Good, Lamia. That’s good. You should...you deserve to feel safe.” Lamia’s pages flutter slightly. 

_So do you,_ she writes. _I hope you get to meet her someday._

Icarus thinks that’s highly unlikely, and in most universes, he’d be right. They don’t like to bring Projects with similar powers together, so Icarus has never talked to anyone else who feels a connection to the universe the way he does. Granted, from what Lamia told him, Marzana doesn’t feel connected to the universe exactly the way he does (his intuitions are less...murdery), but they’re close enough for Riggins and Priest to want to keep them apart. 

Still, when he lies back in his bed (a generous term for his creaky, uncomfortable cot) the night after Lamia tells him about Marzana for the first time--and every night after that--he gets a warm little shiver down his spine ( _is that possible? for a shiver to be warm?_ he wonders, then answers his own question: _well, apparently, yes_ ). He thinks it means that a good thing is coming. 

(His powers don’t work the way Blackwing thinks they do, the way they _want_ them to work. He can’t really read minds or warp reality or see the future. There are just certain things that he just _knows_ without knowing how he knows them, the way he knows English or how to brush his teeth; and then there are other things that simply don’t seem hard for him to figure out. Sometimes the universe nudges him along, and sometimes it floats just beyond his reach, but either way, he’s at it’s beck-and-call, not the other way around. 

This time, at least, it’s telling him something nice.)

The day it happens, he doesn’t take his shoes off before bed. 

He doesn’t know why, couldn’t explain it with a gun to his head (and while no one tries to make him in this particular situation, it’s happened before, and he couldn’t answer then either), but he just doesn’t. 

He’s sure they’re watching--they’re always watching, and also video-ing for future reference--but he’s also sure it doesn’t quite matter. 

He’s in bed by 9, which is when the lights in his room turn off, with his shoes still on his feet. At 9:12, according to the glowing clock on his wall, there’s an incredible commotion out in the hallway. He sits up, squinting into the dark. 

Something tells him not to go to the door and try to peek through the crack to see if he can tell what’s happening. He’s rewarded for this intuition by not getting blown to bits when the door basically explodes. He doesn’t shriek, as Lamia accuses him of later. He just lets out a very manly shout of surprise. 

A girl holding a gun steps halfway through the hole where his door used to be. 

“Are you coming or what?” She demands. 

“Um,” Icarus says, scrambling to his feet. The girl gestures with the gun. 

“She said we have to take you if we go, so come on, let’s go,” she snaps. Her gaze snaps over to her right, at someone Icarus can’t see, and she fires the gun. “Sorry, Lamia,” she apologises. 

“That’s Lamia?” Icarus squeaks, pointing at the gun. “The gun is Lamia?”

“Duh,” the girl says, which is fair. “I don’t want to have to ask you a third time, dude.” 

“Right!” Icarus says. He has a penchant for focusing on the wrong details in a situation; sometimes it’s a good thing, but mostly it means that he’s never quite on task. “The going. Let’s go.” 

So they do, Icarus running right behind Marzana, who seems to know the way out, Lamia shifting into various weapons in her hand as she takes out every guard in her way. 

It’s the most bloody, gory, horrible thing he’s ever seen in his life, but he understands both the necessity and the appeal of it. It’s nice to have the power for once. 

Somehow, neither of them get shot (Lamia also doesn’t get shot, mostly because she’s being a gun), and then they get into a van. The girl gets into the driver’s seat, Lamia turns into a key so they can start the engine, and Icarus slams the passenger-side door just in time before the girl stomps on the gas pedal and doesn’t let up. 

“How do you know how to drive?” Icarus asks nervously as they peel away. 

“I don’t!” she replies, taking her eyes off the road for far too long to grin at him. “But don’t worry. The universe is looking out for us.” 

The universe does, in fact, appear to be looking out for them, because they don’t get followed by any Blackwing goons or stopped by any local police for Marzana’s speeding. 

Because that’s who the girl is, of course: Project Marzana. 

She talks as fast as Icarus does, so he gets an explanation for the night’s events quickly: when Marzana and Lamia were introduced, the universe told Marzana that they were going to be best friends. When she told Lamia this, Lamia (who was being one of those dolls that talk when you pull the string in its back) told Marzana she already has a best friend. (This fact makes Icarus feel all kinds of warm and fuzzy things that he’s pretty sure are from himself and not the universe or anything.) 

“You can have two best friends,” Marzana had replied. “We can all three be best friends. Whatever.” 

Icarus resists the urge to get pedantic about the singularity implied by the word “best” and decides to focus on the important things, like the fact that he now has two friends. Two best friends. Two best friends who broke him out of Blackwing and are on the run with him.

“Cool,” he says. “Very cool.” 

At some point, Icarus decides they need to stop somewhere and get some sleep. He means that they should pull over by the side of the road and try to lean the seats back as much as possible and try to nap. Marzana just nods, grunts, and turns down a side road; she keeps driving just long enough that Icarus considers bringing it up again, then, with a confident jerk of the wheel, turns them into a motel parking lot. 

She parks around the back, and Icarus, Marzana, and Lamia (still in the form of a key, now cupped in Icarus’ hands) get out of the van and breathe the fresh air. It still doesn’t feel real. Surely 

“If we want a room, don’t we have to give them money?” Icarus asks. “And also not be covered in blood? or 14?” 

“Fuck,” Marzana says. “Um…” She squints at the key in Icarus’ hands. “Lamia, can you be money?” The key doesn’t change shape. Icarus is pretty sure he knows why. 

“She won’t want them to touch her,” he says. Marzana nods seriously. 

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll just kill everybody and then we can have as many rooms as we want.”

“What?” Icarus gasps. “No!” Marzana scowls. 

“Then you come up with a plan, genius.” Icarus squeezes his eyes shut and tries to think. _Think think think!_ And then: _aha!_ He feels the tension bleed out of his shoulders. 

“Third room from the end,” he says. “I have...I have a good feeling about it.” Marzana shrugs. 

“Fine. But if there are people in there, I get to kill them.” Icarus shrugs, unwilling to argue with his new best friend. He’s starting to understand why Lamia finds Marzana’s scariness sort of reassuring. 

The window swings open easily, and there’s no one in the room. They shove whatever they can in front of the door to make it hard for anyone to come in, and then they collapse into the room’s two soft beds (real beds, with clean white sheets and no squeaking), Marzana in one and Icarus holding Lamia--who has conveniently turned into a very soft teddy bear--in the other. 

Icarus jolts awake at 7 in the morning, exactly when the alarm at Blackwing rang every morning. He looks across the room and sees that Marzana’s awake too. He grins at him, somehow sharklike, and turns over, sending a clear message: today, they sleep in. 

The next morning, Icarus sees Marzana kill someone for the first time. 

Okay, so that’s super not true; Icarus saw her kill, like, a million people the first time he met her. But those were Blackwing people. Not...normal people. Real people. 

They’re at a gas station. Icarus is already sort of freaked out about it, because he doesn’t really understand what gas is or how Marzana knows they need it or how it works or--most importantly--how they’re going to get away with not paying for it. There are at least two other people there--one with his car, presumably getting gas, and at least one person inside the tiny convenience store--and Icarus doesn’t love the idea of being seen, either. Even if Blackwing hasn’t put their faces all over the news, which he and Marzana have been debating the likelihood of, they’re still wearing matching bloodstained jumpsuits and visibly too young to drive. 

“I gotta plan,” Marzana says. She gets out of the van, cool as anything, and by the time Icarus has rounded the van to join her she’s somehow procured a goddamn sword and is using it to slice the guy getting gas in half. Icarus yelps, ducking down and covering his ears from some out of place impulse. Marzana doesn’t even glance his way, heading into the convenience store nonchalantly to finish the job with the other witness. 

Icarus’ stomach heaves, and he puts his head between his legs, trying to keep himself from throwing up. 

“Hey,” Marzana says, appearing over his shoulder, sounding sort of pissed. “Come on, we gotta go.”

“You just killed those people!” Icarus gasps, turning to her. “For no reason at all!” 

“I had a reason,” Marzana says, irritably. “They were supposed to die.” 

“What--That--what does that--” He’s at a loss for words. Marzana frowns, sitting down next to him. 

“Lamia says the universe tells you things too,” she says. “Right?” Icarus shrugs, which she seems to understand perfectly. “Okay, so does anything feel wrong? Like, universe wrong, not, like feelings wrong or whatever.” Icarus shuts his eyes, but there’s nothing but the slowly abating nausea. 

“No,” he admits. Marzana nods, once. 

“Exactly,” she says. “I did what I was supposed to do, and now we have a new car, so Lamia doesn’t have to keep being a key, and there’s food and I think some tee-shirts in the little store. So let’s take those things, and then let’s get the fuck out of here.” Icarus nods and stands up. He holds out his hand to help Marzana up, and she looks at him funny before handing him the sword and standing up on her own. “If we’re gonna keep goin’ like this together, you’re gonna have to get used to it,” she says, authoritatively, before walking off in the direction of the store. 

The sword in his hands shifts until Lamia is standing next to him in her human form, her hand held in his. 

“Are we all friends again?” She asks, softly. Icarus clutches at her hand, glad to see her familiar face (though she can do many, as he’s seen over the years). 

“Yeah,” he says. “We’re friends.” Lamia smiles, and Icarus gently pulls her towards the store. He wonders if Lamia has ever had chocolate. 

“Don’t call me Marzana anymore,” Marzana says, suddenly. They’ve been on the run for a solid week, sleeping in motel rooms or by the side of the road, stealing food and clothes and cars as they go. (Icarus is beginning to suspect that they’ll never actually learn how to fill a gas tank.) Their latest ride is an RV, which Icarus is very much enjoying: 

“It’s like a house! But in a car!” 

He’s driving, which comes far less easily to him than it does to Marzana, who is sitting in the passenger’s seat, drinking an ICEE and giving him directions. Mona is in the back somewhere; last he saw, she was being a penny. 

“What should I call you then?” Icarus asks. 

“Bart,” she answers instantly. 

“Why Bart?” 

“It’s my name,” she says. It’s only been a week, but Icarus doesn’t have to look over to see that she’s rolling her eyes. “It’s short for Bartine. Bartine Curlish. Don’t you have a name?” Icarus squirms in his seat. He doesn't really want to go by his Project name anymore either, but his old name is...it’s not his anymore. He doesn’t want it. 

“I’ll get back to you on that,” he replies, as calmly as possible. “Lamia, dearest, do you have a name?” He’s not really expecting a reply, so Lamia’s breathy whisper right behind his chair startles him enough that he jerks the wheel and almost ends up in the other lane, which gets him honked at. 

“Mona Wilder,” she says. 

“That’s a nice name,” Marzana--no, Bart--says. “I like it.” Mona throws her arms around Bart from behind, and Bart lets her--not hugging back, but not pushing her off--and Icarus is so distracted by the lovely sight that he almost does kill them all again. 

Bart makes him pull over and switch places with her. 

He doesn’t find his new name until a month later. 

They’ve settled into a sort of routine, the one they’ll stick with for a few years before he convinces them to move first to London, and then to Seattle, where they’ll meet some important people and he’ll get that nice warm shiver again. 

But first, this: 

He and Bart are eating at a diner. They have actual money now; Bart’s stolen some, and he stumbles across lost pets pretty much wherever they go. They’re eating their favorite--burgers and milkshakes--and he is splitting his attention between talking with Bart and paging through Mona, who is currently being a dictionary. 

The word “Dirk” sticks out to him. It’s a short Scottish dagger, apparently. He mentions this to Bart, who launches into an overenthusiastic rant on her preferred dagger length. He flips absentmindedly through the next couple of pages. 

“Gently” sticks out to him next. It’s a nice word, a word that reminds him of touching Mona when she’s being a human or a kitten or a paper airplane. It’s the opposite of everything Blackwing was. 

“What do you think of the name Dirk Gently?” He asks, shutting Mona and setting her on the seat next to him. Bart grunts. 

“Kinda pretentious, but okay,” she says. 

“I like it,” Mona says, turning back into her human form just long enough to give him a hug before sticking herself to his shirt as a name-tag that says _Hello, my name is Dirk Gently_. 

“Thank you, Mona,” Dirk says, patting the name-tag and taking a sip of his milkshake, feeling lighter and happier than he ever has in his life. “See, Bart, that’s how a supportive friend would respond.” Bart steals one of his fries, even though she has a whole plate of her own, and rolls her eyes. 

“Never said I didn’t like it,” she says. “Geez, Dirk Gently, you’re a sensitive guy.” There’s a twinkle in her eye, and Dirk grins at how easily and excellently his new name rolls off (one of) his best friend’s tongue. 

Later, they’ll argue about who came up with the whole “holistic” thing first. 

(It was, of course, Mona.) 

There are times when Dirk worries that Bart might leave them. (He’s not worried about Mona leaving him. It’s not that she doesn’t love Bart, but, frankly, she was his friend first, and they all sort of live their lives on a moral code that heavily features the “finders-keepers” rule.) Most of the time Bart and Dirk are able to remember that they’re on the same team, but sometimes they’re so distinctively different that Dirk wants to pull his own hair out. 

Sometimes, when they’re arguing about whether or not to kill someone, or where to go, or how long to stay there, or even something as dumb as who gets to shower first, Dirk worries that Bart is going to get sick of him and realize that she doesn’t actually need him. She’s the one who got him out of Blackwing; she’s the one who protects them. Dirk just gets them into strange, occasionally life-threatening situations, which he only manages to get them out of with arguable efficiency. 

Sometimes, Dirk worries that the universe is going to tear him and Bart apart.

All of this comes spilling out on the living room floor of the flat they’re staying in for a little while in London. (Dirk’s on a case, sort of, and Bart is doing some strange daily combination of sightseeing and murder.) Bart is still speckled with blood and Mona is wrapped around Dirk’s shoulders like a shock blanket. They are a little bit drunk, and Dirk can’t stop talking. 

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Bart says when Dirk has fully spiralled out and is just sitting there, shoulders heaving. She puts her hand on his shoulder, tentatively, and Mona-the-blanket wraps a corner of herself around Bart’s wrist. 

“It is?” Dirk’s pretty sure he’s said much stupider things in the last few years. 

“I’m not leaving,” Bart says, rolling her eyes so hard it looks painful. “You’re my best friends. Take care of me. You make me...you make me feel safe.” Dirk blinks. He thought he was past the point where anything could surprise him. Then he throws his arms around Bart’s shoulders. Mona wraps herself firmly around both of them. 

“Good.” He says firmly as Bart slowly relaxes into the hug. “That’s good.” 

**Author's Note:**

> For the record, Todd and Dirk do eventually get together in this 'verse, and the agency does get set up, but I wanted to get this out into the world before I got into all of that.
> 
> Find me on tumblr at <https://sunshine394.tumblr.com/>!


End file.
